Wolfsong
by Eladamri Dael'Oyos
Summary: Ch. 4 up! A story that takes place a few years before Warcraft 3. Anonymous, flames, ANY kind of review accepted. I NEED ADVICE!
1. The Attack

The axe hummed as it split the air, steel glinting into the beady eyes of the assembled Orcs. There were about ten of them, and they stood in an unruly battle formation below a small cliff, watching the weapon and its wielder as they prepared for battle. Some of the larger Orcs carried huge battle axes, some were armed with simple engraved staffs, and still others were mounted on huge wolves and had plain yet deadly warblades clutched in their large hands. All were prepared for battle, and all had their eyes fixated on the huge creature on the outcrop.  
Grom Hellscream was truly a sight to behold. Although he was ancient in his seasons, he was ever ready for battle. He carried a huge bearded axe in his hands, and although he wore very little armor, his green skin was as hard as seasoned leather. His long black hair was braided several times, and it whipped behind him as it was caught in the backdraft of his mighty swing. He was the second-in-command of the Orcish Horde, and a close compatriot to the young Warchief, Thrall. He was already in his seasoned middle age during the dark days of the First War between the Orcs and the humans, and now he was at least seventy years old. He was a role model for many of the lesser warriors of the Horde, and was also a skillful orator. He spoke, and his deep bass voice boomed like a wave over the assembled warriors.  
"Brothers, I come with word from the Warchief. Thrall has consulted the wise Elder Shamans and has discovered that a large band of humans is on the march to the camps we have set up. The shamans say these humans bear hostile intent to us, and so we must protect these settlements with our lives. Those of you assembled here," he cast a fierce eye over his comrades, "are the best in your selected castes. You are to lead our small army to victory over the humans with all the strength and cunning inherent to us Orcs. Now, let me hear you, brothers! Will we crush the humans?"  
A mighty roar arose and made the air shimmer.  
"Will we make our Warchief proud?" screamed the mighty Orc.  
The roar grew louder.  
"Then go mighty warriors! Make yourselves ready, and do so with haste! The army marches at noon!"  
***  
Prince Arthas sat in his command tent, penning a letter to his lover, the beautiful Jaina Proudmoore. He had been on the march for two weeks, and had written a letter every other day. He had just finished writing the letter and was just about to put his seal on it when he noticed an ink smudge on the parchment. He stopped to wipe it off, then reviewed the entire letter. This is what he had written:  
  
Dearest Jaina,  
My days seem to grow ever longer when I am away from you.  
We have been on the march for a long while now, and these camps  
never seem to get any nearer. I fear for what we may find once  
we arrive, however. These Orcs are rumored for being ferocious  
beasts, and renowned warriors. I hope you think of me as often  
as I do of you, and pray that I may escape this battle unscathed  
so that I may return to see your divine face.  
Forever yours,  
Arthas  
  
Arthas stamped the letter with his seal and exited his tent. As he strode across the camp, he saw many signs of a healthy settlement: peasants busily going about their tasks, archers and swordsmen practicing with vigor in the training arena, and stablehands shushing griffons and horses with the practiced hand of a veteran of their trade. Arthas also heard a sound that was unfamiliar to him; the cracks of firing muskets and the acrid smell of gunpowder As he heard these things, he realized their origin. The dwarves in their shop had been practicing with a new kind of "long rifles", a type of musket that gave their shots tenfold range. He paused for a moment to hear another volley of fire, and then moved on to the Archmage's tent.  
Antonidas was a grizzled old man, but he exuded an air of brilliance and calm. Arthas always found conversations with the old man comforting, though he was seldom in a good mood. He was the head of the respected Kirin Tor, the ancient mage's guild in the human's golden capitol city of Dalaran. As such, he always had many pressing affairs to deal with and had little time to speak with the Prince under normal circumstances. However, he noticed the troubled expression on the young man's face as he shuffled toward his tent.  
"Something troubles you, my lord?" said the old man, placing a gnarled hand on Arthas' shoulder.  
"Please, do not address me by that title under such informal conditions, Antonidas. We have little need for frivolities here. Indeed, my mind is in turmoil, for my longing to see Jaina becomes greater each day. I know she sends me letters, but that alone does not seem to be enough."  
Antonidas chuckled. "Oh, you young ones and your silly love. If only you had become a mage as your father wished, instead of rushing off to war, you would know nothing of young lady Proudmoore, and be it a great weight off your heart, Arthas. She truly loves you, I can tell you that. Wait a bit longer. We will nullify the Orc problem and you can again see your love and your father."  
Arthas was about to say something when a great chorus of yells made him turn. A runner dashed into camp, white-faced and breathing hard. The Prince and the mage rushed over to him, supporting the young man as he slumped down. He spoke in panting gasps.  
"My lords.do something.Orcs.headed this way.heavily armed.make ready!" So saying this, he fainted on the spot.  
Arthas began to issue orders immediately. A simple bell they had erected was rung, herding all the peasants to an arms locker to be outfitted for battle. The Dwarven riflemen crouched on the bluffs above the camp, muskets pointed ahead to meet the oncoming enemy. Arthas and the swordsmen stood at the edge of the camp, whetting swords and hammers with grim expressions on their faces. Antonidas and his magi prepared spells with which to blast down the Orcs. Their horses skittered and shied as they smelled the enemy on the wind  
As soon as all the orders were carried out and every man was in his place, the waiting began. The forest around the camp was silent and watchful, the men coughed occasionally but made no more sound than that for risk of giving away their position to the Orcs. The horses whinnied occasionally, and the crunch of their hooves on gravel was almost maddening to the men.  
Arthas could take it no more and was just about to order a charge when the thunderous clap of gunfire shook the surrounding hills. The men heard distant screams and war cries and knew the thing that they had all dreaded: They were under attack. 


	2. Hellscream Chastised

Grom Hellscream watched as his warriors were mowed down by the gunfire. Invigorated by the heat of battle, those still standing charged ahead into the ranks of humans. Many of the defending warriors were brought down by the Orc's swinging axes and swords, but some of the more experienced fighters stood and fought the green tide. Hellscream crashed into the fray, his eyes blazing with the demonic hellfire that had never truly left him. He swung his axe, and humans died.  
His ears were assaulted with another blast of gunfire. His warriors were better prepared for the barrage of lead this time, and those who were hit were too frenzied to feel anything. Hellscream shrieked his battle cry, the demoralizing blast of sound carrying over the battlefield. He charged on, swinging left and right, deeper into the human settlement. Then he saw him.  
This man, he knew, was his true opponent. A Paladin of the Silver Hand, he stood out starkly against the lesser humans under his command. Bedecked in gleaming armor and wielding a mighty hammer, he seemed to shimmer with his own inner light. He moved through the melee with a grace that surprised Hellscream, disabling only when it was absolutely necessary. Perhaps this human knew something of mercy after all.  
Hellscream hefted his axe, watching the Paladin move purposely toward him. The man moved slowly, bringing his hammer into a defensive position and stopping about ten feet from the Orc. He motioned to Hellscream, and then charged.  
He hit like a runaway cart, giving Hellscream only a split second to block the attack. The blow sent the mighty general back a few feet, much to the Orc's surprise. He reeled, then hit the human with a barrage from his axe, all of which his opponent blocked deftly. They traded blow after blow in this fashion, until the Orc called upon the training he had undergone so long ago.  
He moved fast, too fast for the Paladin to see. Hellscream's movements slowed, and the human was suddenly surrounded by the Orcish general on all sides. Hellscream had duplicated himself, and wasted no time in using the advantage of numbers. Hemmed in by axes, the Paladin dropped to one knee. He looked up at the Orc, who grabbed his chin in viselike fingers. His voice chilled the man's blood.  
"Listen to me, little human. You are nothing to me. Meet my demands, and your death shall be slow and painless. Remove your forces from our lands, return to your king, and tell him the Horde moves again. You humans cannot stand against the might of the new Horde. We do not wish to harm you as we did in ages past, only to free our incarcerated brethren from your internment camps. If you allow us to do this, then by order of our Warchief, we will find a new land for ourselves and never trouble your kind again. Will you agree to our terms?"  
The Paladin spat one word: "Never."  
Hellscream kicked him, sending him sprawling. "Then we will march upon your outlaying villages. We will give you a month before we move on your mage city. If you do not free our brothers and sisters before then, we will raze Dalaran. You have my demands ands consequences. Remember. One month." So saying, he hit the Paladin with the butt of his axe, and the human knew no more.  
  
***  
"How could you do this, Grom?"  
Hellscream bowed his head. He stood before his Warchief in complete failure, and he knew it.  
"But, Thrall-''  
"No. You veered completely from the message I wanted delivered. Do you have any idea what the humans will do now that they think we bear hostile intentions?"  
"My Warchief, I was only intimidating the human general. H-he would have continued his march and destroyed our camp. I saved us!"  
Thrall sighed. He stood, helping Hellscream to his feet. "I cannot bring myself to exile the Warsong clan, Grom. However, I cannot allow this to go unpunished. Seek an audience with Wolfsong. He will know what to do."  
Hellscream was relieved. He nodded his thanks, and exited the Warchief's tent. Surely, the shaman would not be too hard with his punishment. After all, he had known Morg Wolfsong since he was no older than young Thrall. Wolfsong was one of Thrall's closest confidants, an ancient Far Seer who seemed limitless in his wisdom. He was wise, and just, and Hellscream had often sat with him for many hours discussing Thrall's many plans. Still, he was uneasy. He took a deep breath, and started for Wolfsong's tent. 


	3. By Demons be Driven

Morg Wolfsong sat ringed by incense burners, cross-legged in the shamanistic position taught to him so long ago. He inhaled and exhaled deeply and regularly, meditating and expanding his consciousness into the surrounding forestlands. He felt the essences of countless woodland creatures: the shimmering, silvery schools of fish as they swam in their meandering patterns through the rivers and lakes; the birds, swooping and diving over the numberless treetops; the bears making their solitary, purposeful ways through the vales and meadows.  
He breathed deeply, feeling completely at one with the great wood. As he was about to pull his consciousness away and finish meditating, he was disturbed by an alien presence in the forest. In his mind's eye, he looked upon the spot where the outlanders camped, and was horrified.  
The land around the settlement was tortured and corrupted, rotting before the shaman's eyes. He reached with his mind into the earth below the blight, and shuddered as he felt the wretched earth strain to shrug off the pestilence. A flash of movement in the corner of the terrible scene caught his eye, and he watched as a black-robed human moved to an empty spot in the camp and raised his hands. A cloud of eldritch energies swirled around his spidery fingers, and in the blight before him a great circle of stone pushed its way to the surface. A dark pool of energy coalesced in the stones, and began to shimmer. The man brought his hands down, and walked away. As the Orcish shaman watched, the blight crept forward a few feet at the edge of the camp as the energy worked its terrible spell.  
Wolfsong broke off his meditative link as his tent flap rustled. Grom Hellscream strode in nervously, much to the ancient shaman's concern. Wreathed in incense smoke, the general sat across from Wolfsong, bowing deeply to him. The mage returned the gesture, and then spoke in his steady, patient bass voice.  
"Something troubles you, young one?" he said as he leaned in, "you seem uneasy this day."  
Hellscream fidgeted, obviously uncomfortable. "I have crossed the Warchief, old one. He ordered me to come to you as a punishment," he said, then told Wolfsong his tale of the battle. After listening, the shaman thought for a moment, his face grim.  
"We cannot possibly assault Dalaran with an army this size. If we attack the villages, we will only inflame the human hatred towards us. I must speak with Thrall about your rash words, but first I must speak with you about a vision I have had. Outlanders have come to these forests. They seem to be in close contact with demonic entities, and this troubles me deeply. They are vastly powerful, and if they ally with the humans there is no way we can ever hope to calm the war you may have started. I have a task for you now. Go to the outlander's camp, find out all you can about them, and if they are hostile, destroy them."  
"Yes, great one," said Hellscream, and exited the tent to prepare for battle.  
  
***  
  
Hellscream stood on the bluff, flanked by a retainer of his own picking, an old seer named Fenris'al Gul. Staring down on the camp below, he watched the outlanders do their terrible work.  
"I knew humans were arrogant bastards," he said, eyes fogged, "but I never imagined that they could do something like this." He gestured down at the blighted forest and the strange camp in the middle of it.  
Fenris'al Gul watched the slowly sinking sun for a moment before he spoke. "I sense that these are no ordinary humans. They have been exposed to dark energy, and their souls have been warped by it. They do indeed harbor hostile intentions. Wolfsong ordered us to destroy them, and so we shall."  
Hellscream nodded. As a signal, the old seer called upon his shamanistic training and sent a bolt of lightning raging into the evening sky. The rest of the small army recognized this, and readied for battle. Catapult crews hauled huge boulders into their machines, troll spear throwers took aim with their deadly weapons, mighty wolf-riders tested huge nets for strength. When the army was ready, Hellscream roared, and all hell broke loose.  
The sky blackened with long spears. The green tide of Orcs poured down into the enemy camp, laying about with axes and warblades. Flaming comets were hurled from catapults, smashing into the numerous structures of the enemy. Lightning rained from the sky, called down by shamans to do their bidding. The camp was overtaken in less than ten seconds.  
Then the outlanders began to fight back. Warriors seemed to rise from the earth, and began to battle the Orcish troops. Spiders scuttled from the surrounding forest, casting huge webs on groups of attackers. Human necromancers adorned with draconic skulls called forth skeletons from the ground, and while the rattling troops were bashed apart easily, their numbers never seemed to dwindle.  
The Orcs fought valiantly, but were slowly pushed back by the enemy. Where green-skinned warriors fell, they seemed to rise again instantly and fight their former comrades. Soon, only about fifty Orcs remained on the battlefield, faced with countless enemies.  
Grom Hellscream was speechless. The Orcish horde had always defeated their enemies quickly and easily, with little struggle. Now, his troops were falling by the hundreds and being added to the ranks of the enemy. They were fighting a battle they could not win. Shrieking his battle cry, he leapt off the edge of the bluff and fell towards the roiling battlefield below. 


	4. Whispers of the Dead

Morg Wolfsong and Thrall, the Warchief of the Orcish Horde, sat in the shaman's smoky tent, staring down at a shallow bowl of water between them. Speaking in his forceful voice, Wolfsong instructed the young Warchief on what to do. "Look at the very heart of the water, and know that it came from the natural world. Feel that link, and try and follow the water back to whence it-" Suddenly, the old shaman gasped.  
Thrall, the Warchief of the Orcish Horde, looked up at the old shaman, concern in his eyes. Rumbling in his deep bass voice, he could not suppress the dread that crept into his words. "What is it, old one?"  
The ancient seer started to reply, but then toppled forward onto the thin reed mat of his tent. His eyes glazed, he seemed to be looking inward at a horrible sight. His mouth formed around silent words, yet no sound came. A single tear rolled down his cheek, and then he spoke, still lying on the mat where he fell.  
"All those little life-lights...going out so fast...so many...they could do nothing...nothing..."  
Thrall, horrified by his confidant's words, cupped his hands into the bowl of water between them, and splashed it over the shaman's face. Brought back from the brink of unconsciousness, Wolfsong sat up, face in his huge hands.  
"They are all dead...all dead...my god! Hellscream has fallen! Thrall," he said to no one in particular, "Hellscream is dead!"  
Mouth open, Thrall blinked at the old seer. Wolfsong was a trusted advisor, and yet the Warchief could not believe what he was saying. He had known Hellscream since he was young, and had never thought of him dying. Now, his constant figure was gone, never to return. However, instead of remorse and grief, black anger bubbled up inside him. This was what Grom would have wanted. The outlanders would pay.  
  
***  
  
The golden gates of Dalaran opened with protest, squeaking and groaning as their solid-gold mass was pulled aside. The gears slowly stopped and the gateway swung wide, admitting the Crown Prince of Lordaeron and his tired expeditionary party. Arthas kept his eyes downcast as he trudged through the streets, shamefully reminded of the grand party he had left with in the disbelieving eyes of the city's populace. The Archmage Antonidas rode along beside him, the monotonous clacking of his horse's hooves almost maddening in the uneasy silence that pervaded. Looking up, Arthas saw the great Magus' Tower ahead, the spire from which Antonidas kept his council. His father was there now, eagerly waiting for the news of his return. Although Arthas was joyous to be back, he was sure that Teranas would be disappointed in him for his failure. Although he was afraid to admit it, the Prince knew his father would also seek revenge against the Orcs, a foe that would surely crush the unorganized, widely-dispersed Lordaeron Corps.  
They stopped at the foot of the Magus' Tower. Although no door was set into the ivory-smooth stone, a huge runic circle was burned into the travel-worn cobblestones. Antonidas rode into the center of the center and spoke a few syllables in the singsong, lilting language of the Ancients. Arthas felt a pull in his stomach, was wrenched upward, and blacked out.  
  
***  
  
King Terenas was furious. His son had failed the mission that he had so confidently given him, and all over a petty scare from a tired old Orc. Arthas knelt in shame before him now, in the highest spire of the Magus' tower of Dalaran, and endured his father's verbal punishment.  
"You were simply sent out to destroy a few Orcish camps. How could you fail that, Arthas? No doubt the beasts are still slowed by the lethargy that overtook them in my camps," said the king of Lordaeron, his wolfskin cloak swishing as he turned away, "and their leader is naught but a brazen young whelp. Uther could have-"  
"Uther this, Uther that, is he all you talk about? To be sure I consider him a father, but sometimes the old man can be a bit tedious. He is a great man, father, but for once can you just listen to me for one second instead of the judgements of the Silver Hand?"  
Terenas seemed to be warring inside himself for a moment, then said simply "Get out of my sight. Either go back there and bring me the Orcish leader's head on a pike, or you may stop considering me your father. Dismissed," he spat out the next words, "Prince Arthas."  
Standing, Arthas strode toward the door, a maelstrom roiling in his head. If his father wanted him to kill the Orc leader, and if that granted him eventual kingship, then he would relish killing the beast. Slamming open the great oaken doors and walking down the hall to the runic exit, he realized one thing: He needed to speak with Uther. 


End file.
